30 comments:

This one goes beyond even your normal ability to astound me. The picture you paint is perverse, yet natural and fluid, and somehow made right by that. Everything seems to fit and be a real place and time, despite that impossibility inferred in "if she were..." And the imagery is extraordinary, perfect "..The black umbrellas pouring from the church steps like raisins from a scoop..." of course, I especially like "..."I, too, am a fisher of men;/I, too, offer solace and comforting nonsense..."

As usual (for me) I can never find the appropriate words to tell you how I enjoy your writing. You are among the most prolicic and talented souls out there. How are you inspired? How long does it take to create something like this? Do you think about poetry while you are working? Or riding your bike? Is poetry always in your brain?

First, thank you ladies, all of you, for these especially wonderful comments! I appreciate them tremendously.

I thought I would answer Helen's questions here in the comments, because perhaps others will be interested in the answers, as well.

Helen asks, "How are you inspired?" Almost anything I see, hear, or experience can inspire me. This morning, it was being introduced to Lorca's poetry by my very dear friend Hedgewitch. I had heard the name, but not read anything he had written. I was blown away. It made me want to write something wonderful, myself.

Helen asks, "How long does it take you to create something like this?" This poem took about an hour.

Helen asks if I think about poetry at work, on my bike, or all the time? I don't think about it all the time, but I may be thinking of it at any time. I think about it a lot. And yes, I think of poems at work, or traveling, or drifting off to sleep, or listening to music, or just really any time at all. A single word or image may lead to a poem. I generally begin with one line and build from there. With this one, it was the opening line, but it isn't always, or even usually.

I mean, even a tossed-off-lightly line like "she arranges her perfumes in rows like kept birds lined on a perch" --- if I wrote a line like that once in a MONTH I would be delirious - you scatter these richly through every poem with an original vision that is just remarkable. Thanks for your interesting comment on your process. But you have more than a process. You are a genius, I do humbly believe. The whole docking between splayed fingers thing........and "their minds melting from the altitude like hanged men". I have no clue how words like that come to you so easily. I am just so very glad that they do and I get to read them.

Weird. We looked at the picture and then sung the other halves of its tale. This is jazzy and jocose, the mermaid imagined as a seaside whore whose intentions are indifferent to her gig of drowning men's souls in their own lust. Just a job ... to part the curtains and see this gal on her day off, about her own business, her own life, shows that much of the tales are the clutter of men's minds. And that it's possible to exult in blue rooms beyond. I'm dizzy - and entranced. - Brendan

Shay---I don't know why you think that some of your work is more mired in muck than this one. Perhaps this is one of which you're particularly proud?

What I see--every day--is a poet at work who has to have (I must believe this or I will dig at my veins and let myself bleed out, rather than attempt to write when compared with the "spirit of the day") multiple personalities. Your voice is so distinct, yet so different.

Are you planning on a collection of your poetry to be published? If no, why not? There are small, independent publishers, and your flying monkeys/spirits could help hawk them. (And I ain't talkin' 'bout a vanity press, neither!)

The images in this poem are, as usual, mind-boggling. Toothpick fishing boats...black umbrellas, like raisins from a scoop...eyes refracting like confetti...

This is outstanding. Kinda where human behavior melds with the metaphor, where extended scene isn't 'mere extension', where one sliver of social behavior becomes representative of . . . social behavior.

Very, very good.

Trulyfool

(P.S. Nothing like Penelope Cruz works the seaside, the streets, the phones or even -- I do this out of belief, not firm knowledge -- the escort ranks of Charlie Sheen's little black book.)

Wow, that's quite a mind trip for a whore who lives and works by the sea ;) Like the layers and hints that you add to this as you build the momentum towards the last stanza Shay. You're work is deserving of more than one read because of your metaphors.

A poem with character, and an engaging one at that, masterfully playing with metaphor and imagery. Descriptive and hard-hitting, an exceptional piece that certainly hits what I would call poetic elegance. Strong, very strong - keep up the good work.

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“I'd rather sing one wild song and burst my heart with it, than live a thousand years watching my digestion and being afraid of the wet.” ― Jack London, The Turtles of Tasman

"The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated. And the only thing people regret is that they didn't live boldly enough, that they didn't invest enough heart, didn't love enough. Nothing else really counts at all." — Ted Hughes

Poetry made from...

...trinkets, mojo, and double mocha latte!

Welcome to the Word Garden

The Word Garden consists of original poems written by me, Shay a.k.a. Fireblossom. Please stop a while and enjoy them. But don't pick the blooms that you find here, they must not be planted elsewhere without permission of the author.